


Court and Spark

by honey_wheeler



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domesticity, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Hattie bustles around with brisk efficiency, laying out drying cloths, pouring a pitcher of cool water into the bath when Lizzie complains that it’s too hot.  When Henry first started coming to visit Lizzie during her baths, Hattie had been scandalized and awkward; now she treats him like another piece of furniture.





	Court and Spark

It shouldn’t be so erotic. God knows, Henry has seen Lizzie do things –- and done things _to_ her –- that are far more conventionally enticing, and yet here he is, reduced to a drooling fool at the barest hint of her breast from behind as she lowers herself into her bath.

Hattie bustles around with brisk efficiency, laying out drying cloths, pouring a pitcher of cool water into the bath when Lizzie complains that it’s too hot. When Henry first started coming to visit Lizzie during her baths, Hattie had been scandalized and awkward; now she treats him like another piece of furniture. 

Lizzie chats idly as she runs a soapy sponge down one arm, and he listens absently, hearing the words more as a soothing, familiar sound rather than actual information. He’s never watched her from this angle before. Usually he sits at the window, which lets them look at each other, and lets Henry look at her tits in all their formidable glory. Perhaps that’s why the brief hints and glimpses he gets from his current spot just past her shoulder are so…well, titillating in their novelty. He should ask Hattie to pile things in his usual chair more often.

“Bother.” A lock of hair has slipped free from Lizzie’s pins to straggle down the back of her neck. Henry has half a notion to bound forward and lift it from her neck himself, and then trace the path of it with his tongue. It’s something he should possibly view with chagrin or dismay, the way the simplest things about Lizzie turn him into a randy buck with little self control, but as happens so often with Lizzie, he simply submits to it. 

She lifts her arms above her head to refasten her hair, and the silhouetted view of her breast – soft, tear-shaped, swaying and moving so perfectly that Henry thinks a more poetic man than he might write a sonnet about it – could make a eunuch weep.

“Hattie,” Henry says, as she makes a motion as if to assist. “Leave us.”

Lizzie twists to peek at him through the triangle made by her upraised arm. Hattie pauses for a moment, but when Lizzie doesn’t countermand him, she moves to the door swiftly. Henry likes to think that she’s merely a dedicated servant, obeying with alacrity, but he thinks it more likely that she could tell just what’s on his mind and had no desire to witness it.

Lizzie drops her arms, letting her hair straggle as it may, and watches him as he stands and moves to the side of the bathtub. “You’ll have to help me dry off now,” she points out, then squeals as he hooks his hands under her armpits and hefts her from the tub like so much laundry. He holds her against him, water seeping into his clothing and dripping down his forearms, and she lets herself dangle from his hands with only her big toes resting on his boots as she eyes him watchfully.

“First I plan to lick every bead of water off your skin,” he says, enjoying how her eyes go wide and dark almost instantly, “paying special attention to your cunt, of course. Then when I’m sure I’ve gotten every last, tiny drop from every little nook, I’m going to fuck you like my life depends on it.” Then, as an afterthought: “And then I’ll dry you.”

For several long moments, she doesn’t move or speak. This sort of talk isn’t something he often indulges in; frankly, he’s not sure that he’s ever been so candid about his desires, or so coarse. When she continues to do little more than blink at him, he begins to think that perhaps this will be one of those times when the sparks between them flare into conflict rather than desire. Then she puts her arms around his shoulders and he feels her toes push against his boots as she raises up a bit towards him.

“Fair enough,” she says. The last thing he thinks before his tongue starts a path down her throat is that he ought to try this – the back view, the filthy talk, all of it – more often.


End file.
